Jenn Habel

Just One Insight

Most afternoons we take the dogs
to the creek so the one can flail
through the water, the other
lie down and shred his stick.


We sit on rocks and watch them,
telling one another to look at
what, in most cases, he or she
already sees. Tuesdays, though,


he’s been to the therapist, so I
get to ask for Just One Insight,
a compromise upon which we
seem to have agreed. I wait as


he shuffles toward his revelation,
interrupting to say don’t take this
the wrong way or you understand
none of this is conscious
, and I don’t


think I exaggerate when I compare
myself in those moments to
an addict whose next fix is in sight
but still slightly out of reach.


There’s a beached shopping cart
on the bank beside us, a fire
extinguisher, and, embedded
in the sand, many shades of glass.


That I’m always waiting for one
of the dogs to slice a paw may be
my worst quality; not minding
the cost of its stitching, my best.